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cloth-shrouded faces that could not be seen, were alive and
real, At that moment the mask was suffocating to him. Its
privacy was hideous, cutting him off from everything, from
everyone. From all the world. He lifted his left hand, slowly;
then, as though stifling, he tore the mask from his face, and
took a long stride toward Trevelyan, and thrust out his head
and called, "Trevelyan!"

The man's mouth moved without sound, then said, "I
knowed hit was you."

"Trevelyan!" Mr. Munn thought how sick, how afraid,
how stifled, those men were under their masks. He gulped a
full, deep, exquisite breath, like a man who rises from a long
dive, and with burning lungs and bursting heart plunges,
chest-high, into air.

" And you, Trevelyan "—and he took another stride—" you
killed that man, you did; answer me!"

He was almost upon him. Trevelyan moved, lifted his
arm. The pistol exploded in Mr. Munn's grasp. He swung
back from Trevelyan, seeing, even in that light, the man's
narrow eyes go suddenly wide.

Like a belated echo, another shot was fired. Who fired it,
Mr. Munn did not know. Trevelyan staggered, and crossed
his hands on his chest with a movement that was sad, almost
womanly, humble.

Then, there came the volley.

Trevelyan sagged, then fell backward over the lip of the
quarry.

There was not a sound. There was nothing there in the
little space before the men. Even the grass did not look
trodden. It was as though nothing had been there.

The smell of gun smoke hung on the air, sharp and cleanly
like the smell of a disinfectant.

The men let their arms, which had been outstretched, sink
to their sides.

" He fell over," somebody said in a hushed tone. It was as
though he had just witnessed an accident.

Nobody moved.